Given a Glimpse
by Lupa Eira
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a singular encounter with one Rose Tyler in an alleyway. Can be read as Roselock or not, depending upon your preference. Oneshot. Rated T to be safe.


**Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a singular encounter with one Rose Tyler in an alleyway. Oneshot.**

**This was inspired by several wonderful Roselock stories here on Fanfiction-after reading quite a few of them I just had to write something involving these two characters interacting. This really isn't a Roselock fic, but if you want it to be you can read it that way. If that's not your thing, it can simply be read as an interesting encounter. Enjoy!**

**This takes place Post-Reichenbach. I know Sherlock shouldn't be in London, but he is. Rose Tyler shouldn't be in his universe, either, but she is. Come up with a headcanon! I'd love to hear an explanation.**

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"Bad Wolf," Sherlock Holmes muttered, staring at the graffiti intently. It was quite ordinary, in fact it was simply those two words in bright white spray paint on a brick wall in an alleyway, but these words had always puzzled him. At first, he had assumed that Moriarty or someone close to him was behind it, given his irritating predisposition to fairytales, but he soon ruled that out, since Moriarty was dead. The words seemed to be everywhere in London. The few people in his homeless network whom he had questioned about it seemed nonchalant about it, insisting it was just a saying that the kids liked to spray paint, that it didn't mean anything. But Sherlock Holmes had seen the phrase in other places too. Others with seemingly no connection to the graffiti-loving kids on the streets. It was occasionally seen on clothing, as a tattoo, everywhere. Yet it seemed to have a connection to nothing. Why was that?

He stared at the words, hands shoved in his coat pockets and muttering as his breath, unnoticed, turned to steam in the frigid air. The sky was clear, and the moon shone in a waning crescent. A pity, since good murders tended to happen on more extreme nights of the cycle, when the moon's pull on the blood, like its pull on the oceans, affected physiology and violent predispositions. A pity, that is, because Sherlock could use a good murder to keep his concentration on something worth solving, instead of the emotions he was currently trying to keep at bay.

"Odd words, aren't they?" a voice sounded from behind him and slightly to the left. Sherlock didn't bother turning around.

"Yes, I suppose they are," he said slowly, turning around with a critical eye to finish off his deductions that he had begun at the sound of her voice._ Late twenties, not a natural blond, grew up working class, has the money to pay for nicer things but doesn't bother to, does a lot of running and a lot of work on her feet, advanced combat training, carrying a gun in her jacket pocket. Military, maybe, or some kind of secret service. Definitely knows something or she wouldn't be here._ "What can you tell me about them?" The blonde stared back at him with big, impossible brown doe's eyes, her feature's being decorated with an oddly cryptic yet simultaneously honest smile.

"Only that they're not for you." She moved to stand beside him, gazing up at the painted words with what was almost wistfulness, or nostalgia.

"And how would you know they're not meant for me?" Sherlock asked, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. This was his city, after all. What recurring signs weren't meant for him?

"Because they're meant for me," she sighed into the air, reaching to touch the words. Her tone expressed such naked honesty that Sherlock turned to fully face her._ Not using hallucinogens or other mind-altering drugs, no indication of a mental illness or she wouldn't be working for the government at such an obviously high level, not running from anything...but rather running to something._

"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes narrowed, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his tone. The blonde turned to face him with her mouth set in a thin line, her eyes cool.

"Not all mysteries are yours to solve, Sherlock Holmes," she said, chided really, and with such unbelievable authority despite her voice only becoming marginally louder-it made him step back, and not just because her words had such an impact. How had she known it was him? He was heavily disguised, after all-hell, he looked at least twenty years older, and a different ethnicity! And how had she known of his survival?_ She's definitely not working for Mycroft...who is she?_

"What are you talking about-"

"You're arrogant!" she shut him down mid-sentence. "You've come so close to losing everything you are still arrogant. When you come back, and John sees you, will you really just assume that everything will go back to how it was?" The mention of John made Sherlock's chest twist painfully.

"How many times have you had to make that choice?" Sherlock raised his own baritone growl, not bothering to hide his identity. "Who are you to question my life?" He noticed belatedly that his eyes were stinging and that his throat was clogged with tears.

"I made the choice once, without thinking," she murmured, unfazed by his emotional display but softening her own tone. "I said I'd be gone for twelve hours. I came back in twelve months. I thought nothing would have changed." Sherlock stared at her face, trying to find any sign she was lying, but he found nothing there but the same infuriating honesty.

"Who are you, really?" She smiled and gestured to the words on the wall.

"My name is Rose Tyler, but this is who I am," she answered. "Bad Wolf. This message is a reminder for me. At first it was a reminder of something I had to do. Now it's a reminder of the consequences of that choice." Rose stepped away from him, spreading her arms out wide and then reaching a hand toward the cold stars. "I never told him, but the day and night still hurt sometimes," she murmured, suddenly not focused on the detective in front of her. "Never told him that there's no way he could possibly see all the time what I saw. I saw the universe expand and collapse; I saw the atoms of everything in the universe, everything that ever was and ever could be; I felt the metal beneath my feet as earth and wind and stardust. And," she suddenly shifted an urgent, piercing gaze to him, "The reason I'm here is because I know one thing: if you grant someone a glimpse of the universe in all its wonder and then take it away, it will kill both the giver and the receiver in more ways than one." Lowering her hand and her eyes, Rose Tyler did an odd thing-she cupped the detective's face in one hand, soothingly stroking his cheekbone, then withdrew it gently. A sad smile played its way across her features as they both struggled to hold back tears.

For some reason, the encounter had felt profoundly intimate. Throughout her speech and the touch, the detective had been holding his breath, feeling unbelievably small and fragile, and now his breath came in shudders. For once, Sherlock felt no need to understand the specifics of the words a person had spoken. Now, he simply breathed, acknowledging his emotions and his fears and his needs and his world and this one mysterious woman, who was not important but somehow was. Sensing the change, the sad smile widened slightly and she leaned in to kiss his cheek. Not in a moment of passion, or attraction, but simply as a gesture of comfort. And Sherlock felt a bit lighter and a bit heavier all at once, somehow.

She took a few more steps back from the suddenly tired-looking detective, retreating to the shadows. "Don't take too long to come home, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured, almost lovingly, like a caress, like a breath of wind, like a song. And the great Sherlock Holmes bowed his head, leaving Rose Tyler to depart silently and unseen.

John. The receiver of Sherlock's universe, as Rose Tyler had been of someone else's, or so she had seemed to say. If you grant someone a glimpse of the universe in all its wonder and then take it away, it will kill both the giver and the receiver in more ways than one. What had John felt when Sherlock jumped? And how would John react when he came back?

For one of the only times in his life, Sherlock Holmes broke down where he was and sobbed.

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**Well. That turned out nothing like how I expected it. Then again, I really didn't plan it, so, whatever. Maybe you guys can tell me if it's even coherent? I was kind of just putting out thoughts and emotions.**


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